


Maybe

by karrahbear



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-08
Updated: 2013-03-08
Packaged: 2017-12-04 17:20:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/713159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karrahbear/pseuds/karrahbear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles asks Derek for a personal favor. It touches Derek deeper than he realizes and brings back a part of himself he'd purposefully left behind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maybe

Derek is mid-swing when he hears a familiar heartbeat and catches a whiff of teenage boy. The sudden shift of his focus makes the axe land wide, not splitting the log he was aiming at, but instead knocking it off the stump. He briefly debates continuing and ignoring the approaching guest, but Derek is breathing hard and there’s sweat running into his eyes. So he steps away and wipes his face on the edge of his t-shirt before taking a seat on his porch and waiting for the boy to appear.

“Stiles,” Derek greets.

“Uh, hey.” 

Stiles stops a few yards from where Derek’s sitting. He’s wearing running shoes and shorts, despite the cool January weather, but he’s also got on a hooded sweatshirt with BHPD printed across the front. Derek guesses it’s his father’s.

“Can I help you?” Derek asks, when Stiles doesn’t say anything.

The boy fidgets, bouncing back and forth on his feet, and sticking his hands into the front pocket on the sweatshirt. A couple years ago, the move would have been typical Stiles. But now, it’s telling. Stiles is uncomfortable.

Derek watches him, letting the silence stretch tight between them, wondering how long it will take before he starts to talk. Again, it’s a reminder of how much Stiles has changed over the past couple years.

He’s learned to tame his motor mouth and flailing, though it probably helps that he’s switched from Adderall to a different drug for his ADHD, and he’s grown into the lanky body he had as a younger teen, with broader shoulders, lean muscles, and a sharper jawline. He looks well on his way to adulthood, with longer hair and better posture. Even his scent has shifted; previously a softer, sweeter smell, reminiscent of clean laundry and warm milk, but now it’s sharper, more poignant, like cinnamon and musk. 

The wind shifts and Derek can smell Isaac, back from the hardware store. 

Finally, Stiles gathers himself with a deep breath and steps closer, pulling a sheet of paper from his pocket where his hands were previously. He holds it out to Derek.

It’s pink. That’s the first thing he notices. But as his eyes scan the black ink on the page, Derek realizes he already knows what it says. The flyers have been all over town, and he’s read them more than once while standing in line at the grocery store, the pharmacy, and even the diner. Despite that, he takes the paper anyway.

“Look,” Stiles says, his voice soft, “I was just wondering if… Well, usually my dad and I do it, but with my dad’s health and all…” 

The boy waves his hand as his voice trails off. Derek knows his father’s condition, Stiles doesn’t have to explain.

“You don’t have to. I totally understand if you don’t want to, but it’s the tenth anniversary, and I just didn’t want to go alone.”

Derek swallows hard and then looks up, catching Stiles wide eyes.

“It’s fine,” he tells Stiles. “I’ll do it.”

A sad smile tips Stiles lips as Isaac pokes his head around the corner of the cabin. Stiles glances over.

“You’re welcome too,” he says.

Isaac pads over to look at the flyer in Derek’s hands. His lips press together and he nods.

Stiles releases a breath that comes out in a puff of white in the cold air.

“Thanks guys.”

Derek nods. Stiles takes a couple steps back and then turns and jogs back into the trees. Derek and Isaac wait until his footsteps and heartbeat are gone before speaking.

“You know he quit lacrosse last year,” Isaac murmurs.

“I know.”

“He runs track now. He’s a great cross country runner.”

“I know.”

“But he hates to run.”

Derek stands up, folds the flyer, and pockets it. 

“Don’t we all,” he answers.

*~*~*~*~*~*

The weather is warmer in March, but still crisp enough to make one’s lungs burn if over exerted. When Derek and Isaac arrive, Stiles is already there. He’s in shorts again, but this time he’s got a white t-shirt on. On the front it says, “I run for my mother,” with a picture of a beautiful woman with Stiles’ eyes. The back has a list of numbers, designated by year. Derek realizes they’re race times.

The two wade through a sea of pink until they reach Stiles.

“Morning,” Isaac says.

“Morning,” he answers.

Stiles eyes bounce between Derek and Isaac, and Derek knows what he’s looking at. This morning, Isaac had produced three pink bandanas. Derek had started to veto the idea until he thought about what it meant to Stiles. Isaac had sensed his shift of heart and before Derek knew it, he had a folded pink bandana wrapped just under his left elbow. Isaac had grinned and then folded his own and wrapped it around his forehead.

“What – “

Isaac interrupts Stiles by handing him the third bandana. For a moment, Stiles stares at the pink fabric, and then his mouth snaps shut, and he snatches it out of Isaac’s hand. Derek notices Stiles blinks hard a few times before folding his bandana and wrapping it around his head like Isaac.

“Thanks,” he tells them.

The trio pushes through the crowd until they reach the starting line. A large video screen is set up and the mayor is calling for quiet. The crowd’s noise takes a few moments to die down, and then the mayor is introducing the video – a tribute to those the town has lost.

As Stiles’ mother’s picture appears, Derek feels Stiles stiffen beside him. Isaac lays a hand on Stiles’ shoulder and squeezes. Derek presses closer to Stiles, offering support. Their hands brush and then Stiles is tangling his fingers with Derek’s, squeezing hard. Derek tightens his grip. The three stand pressed together until the video ends and the countdown for the race begins.

*~*~*~*~*~*

Stiles sets an almost brutal pace and Derek and Isaac keep step with him. They don’t speak until they’ve crossed the finish line five kilometers later. Stiles pulls out a permanent marker from his waistband and hands it to Derek.

“Would you mind?” Stiles asks, motioning towards his back.

He turns and Derek tugs up the back of Stiles’ shirt until he can reach the white space under the list of numbers. He writes in the year and then their finish time, noting that the time it takes Stiles to finish has continuous decreased over the past decade.

“Thanks,” he says, when Derek hands back the marker.

“You’re welcome,” Derek answers, not thinking about how his handwriting was noticeably different from the Sheriff’s, who had written the times on the shirt for the nine years prior. 

*~*~*~*~*~*

Stiles’ inclusion of Derek into something so personal sparks something in Derek. He can’t begin to figure out what it is, but for the first time in years, his fingers feel restless and his mind won’t stop racing. 

He tries to wait it out, hoping the feeling will fade, but it doesn’t. The spark ignites and Derek does something that after the fire, he vowed he’d never do again.

*~*~*~*~*~*

Stiles’ footsteps coming up down the hall almost make Derek reconsider his plan. He could be out the window before Stiles reaches his room, but he isn’t. Instead, he waits out the few moments that seem to stretch out unnaturally before the knob turns and Stiles steps into his room.

The fact that Stiles doesn’t jump when he notices Derek is a testament to how many times Derek has appeared in Stiles’ room with no warning. Instead, the boy pops his knuckles and then sinks into his desk chair, turning towards his computer.

“Alright, give it to me. What big bad has crawled into Beacon Hills this time?”

Derek shakes his head before realizing Stiles can’t see him.

“Nothing,” he answers verbally. “At least as far as I know.”

Stiles straightens up and spin around in his chair, the surprise evident on his face. He scratches at his head, tousling his damp hair, and Derek can smell the soap still clinging to his skin. 

“Well, what can I do for you, then?”

Derek swallows as he thinks about how to begin or where to begin. He doesn’t get a word out. Stiles waits, his eyes flitting around the room, before he notices the package leaning against his dresser behind Derek.

Stiles nods his chin towards it.

“What’s that?”

Derek steps sideways and then kneels. He tugs at the knot of twine holding the cloth on the gift. It comes undone and the covering falls away.

Stiles gasps audibly and stands up to move for the painting. He stops halfway across the room, his eyes wider than dinner plates.

It’s a portrait of Stiles’ mother, a wide smile on her face as she laughs, eyes twinkling the same color as Stiles’ own. In the background are wildflowers of a dozen different colors. At the bottom is Stiles’ most recent race time, painted in a graceful script that wasn’t his own. Derek had asked Isaac to do it, knowing that Isaac’s elegant letters would look better than his own handwriting, which was more of a scrawl. 

“Oh my God,” Stiles breathes. “Did – did you paint this?”

Derek is still kneeling next to the canvas. He ducks his head.

“Oh my God,” Stiles repeats. His voice breaks on the last word.

Derek looks up to see tears rolling down Stiles’ face. The boy’s legs are unsteady as he tries to take another step forward, but his knees are weak too, and he ends up falling to the carpet in a shaking mass of long limbs and salty tears.

Derek isn’t sure what to do. He doesn’t deal with emotion well and this was why he had wanted to leave the painting and disappear. But then, Stiles is crawling forward and reaching a hand out, running his fingertips across the acrylic paint depicting his mother’s cheek, before his hand falls to the carpet and he bows his head, sobs shaking his shoulders.

“Thank you,” Stiles chokes, running the back of his hand under his nose. “Thank you, thank you, thank you…”

It becomes a whispered mantra as Derek reaches up and tugs down a box of tissues. He hands it to Stiles, but Stiles grabs his wrist and tugs. He probably meant to move Derek to him, but instead it pulls Stiles closer to Derek.

Derek drops the box of tissues and wraps his arms around Stiles, pulling him against his chest. Stiles returns the embrace, his fingers twisting tight into the back of Derek’s shirt as he presses his face into Derek’s shoulder.

For a long time, neither of them speak. When Stiles finally calms down, and Derek can hear that his heartbeat is back to normal, Stiles tries to pulls away. But Derek’s grip on Stiles is just as tight has Stiles’ had been on him, and he doesn’t let the boy go.

They both look at the painting.

“I didn’t know you painted,” Stiles tells him.

“I haven’t. Not since…”

Stiles leans back into Derek.

“The last one I did was for – it was – “

Derek’s throat closes up, but from Stiles’ hum of acknowledgement, he knows who the painting was for.

“I get it,” Stiles says. 

And Derek knows he does. Stiles hates running, but does it for his mother. Derek loves painting, but in penance, he’d given it up.

“Will you ever stop running?” Derek asks.

Stiles remains silent for a minute, before answering: “Maybe.”

Derek is familiar with that answer. It was the same one he’d given Laura when she asked about whether he’d ever paint again. It wasn’t just ‘maybe.’ It was ‘not until I find a reason to.’ Derek had found his reason. He hopes maybe Stiles will find his.

**Author's Note:**

> In case you're not familiar - the mentions of pink and the race were references to Susan G. Komen's Race for the Cure. It's an annual 5K event done in various cities to help raise funding for breast cancer research.


End file.
